


Do You Hear (What I Hear)

by TheStrange_One



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [10]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Fantasy setting, Goblins, M/M, Scenes of torture, torture aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 16:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: On the tenth day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me,A Goblin King Tale, a Wonderland walk, a doppelganger, a Santa replacement, a postal run, a caroling, a blue snow, a fairy tale, and a cute Spideypool story.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: 12 Days of Christmas [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568926
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Do You Hear (What I Hear)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FayeAsher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeAsher/gifts).



> I know this is late. Family stuff (plus this is really kind of long for these), but I will do all twelve.

“Remember Peter,” Aunt May scolded as he gathered the bags, “you must watch out for goblins.”

“Yes, Aunt May,” Peter said dutifully.

He wasn’t _actually_ lying to his aunt. He did, indeed, intend to keep an eye out for goblins. But unlike most of their village, he wasn’t planning to avoid them.

He grabbed the edges of the cart (these days they could afford a horse to pull it, but a horse wouldn't go where Peter was about to) and pulled it into the road, towards the forest. The cart was piled high with milk, bread, wine, and vinegar. Everyone in the village knew he was taking it to trade for gold and jewels, no on in the village knew who his trading partners were.

Probably for the best, as he seemed to be the only one who gave them the benefit of the doubt. He pulled the cart off the road and into the forest, eyes scanning the treeline for signs of goblins. He was also keeping an eye out for bandits, which wasn’t (yet) necessary. Humans just didn’t place a lot of value on the goods he was lugging.

But the goblins did. Goblins were also creatures of Earth, with the ability to sift through earth and separate it into different parts—which was how they got the gold nuggets and raw jewels that he got. They couldn't, however, make food magically appear so most of the things they ate were raw, or scorched over a slow fire. Mostly scavenged items from the forest.

It was a perfect setup. The goblins were convinced (aside from their King who knew better) that they were getting over on him by exchanging worthless metals and rocks for food. The villagers (none of which knew better) were convinced that Peter was getting over on his trading partners since the gold and jewels were so much more valuable than the bread, milk (even before Peter had stumbled on this his family had been able to afford a cow), wine, and vinegar (which most people believed was failed wine).

Peter, for his part, loved trading with the goblins. He got to see how much happier and healthier they were with real food, good food, to eat. And, for the most part, they seemed happy to see him—if only for the trade goods he was bringing.

“Pete!” The word was the only warning he got before something dropped on his head. The little goblin laughed and rolled and Peter quickly caught her before she could fall and maybe hurt herself. (Hard to tell; goblins were an odd mix of tough and delicate.)

“Gwen,” Peter said with a frown at the little white and yellow goblin. She was small, as far as goblins went, barely the size of his hand. (He didn’t know if she was young or just a different type of goblin.) Her fingers and toes each had five joints, and the bottoms of them had little tiny suction pads that she used to climb things. Her body was mostly white only going yellow at the tips of the head, fingers, toes, and tail. “You could hurt yourself,” Peter said. The little goblin only laughed harder.

None of the goblins thought too much of his assertions that they could hurt themselves. “Come on,” he said with resignation as he tucked her into a pocket on his cloak (that he’d sewn there just for her). Her large blue eyes blinked owlishly at the world around them as she tickled him with her feet.

“You can’t just go dropping on people like that Gwen,” Peter scolded as he hauled his cart. He didn’t think it was his imagination that it was suddenly easier to pull. “A lot of humans wouldn't think twice about hurting you.”

“Not human!” shrieked the little goblin. “Pete-Pete!”

Peter sighed. He wasn’t sure why the goblins didn’t think he was human. Some of them seemed certain that he was just a goblin that was shaped strange, like their King. And wasn’t that the joke?

Once upon a time, the Goblin King had been human.

Suddenly the earth in front of him opened into chasm with a long, wide ramp making Peter jump. “Man,” said Peter as Gwen laughed in his pocket, “no matter how many times that happens I get surprised.” She just laughed harder as Peter pulled his cart forwards.

The moment his cart hit the hard dirt of the ramp it was lifted off its wheels by a horde of gray goblins that appear through the packed dirt. They carry it down the ramp as Gwen climbs out of the pocket and onto his shoulder while Peter calmly follows. The chasm closing was much easier on his nerves than it opening out of nowhere.

At the bottom of the ramp, lit by the softly glowing fungus that made its home in the walls, was the Goblin King.

The Goblin King was large enough to dwarf Peter. He was thick and muscular. Peter wondered if, back when the King had been human, he’d been a knight who’d needed those muscles to carry the armor. Then again, most _knights_ that Peter saw were smaller than the Goblin King.

His skin was an odd patchwork of scarred human skin and rough rock. Many found his countenance to be fearsome, but Peter knew him for the gentle soul he was. The protector of those he loved.

“You again,” growled one of the goblins as Peter approached the cart. “Ain’t you gotten tired of us yet?”

Peter laughed and gently rubbed the cranky old goblin on the head. “You know you missed me,” he teased.

“I missed you!” The large, imposing Goblin King came over and gave Peter a hug that swept him off his feet—literally. “Petey! It’s been too long.” The first part of the sentence was loud and boisterous, but trailed off into something sad and lonely.

Peter simply hugged the Goblin King back, marveling at how the rock that was his skin was warm to the touch, like sun-warmed stone. “I missed you too,” he said warmly.

For just one moment the Goblin King squeezed him tighter before setting him down, a hand at the small of his back. “So! Come, sit, tell me about these things you brought while the helper bots unload your cart. Do you still want gold? You’re lovely little goblin friend there figured out how to harvest edible tree sap.”

Peter laughed and walked with the Goblin King. True, others might look at him askance for it. True, there were those who would say that he was dangerous, but Peter knew better.

Once Peter was gone the Goblin King sat on his throne while the goblins divvied up the goodies that he’d brought. The boy had brought more than enough for every goblin—and had particularly set aside for the Goblin King. Unlike most humans, the boy actually cared.

The little one that had spoken to Peter earlier dropped by the king. “You’ll need to tell him at some point,” the goblin said.

The Goblin King rubbed his face feeling the different textures between skin and stone. “He’s still human,” the King argued. “He’s still aging.” And wasn’t that the laugh? As the Goblin King, he was trapped forever at the moment he’d died as a human.

The little goblin hissed. “He’s in limbo, and you know it,” the goblin said. “And the more time he spends with us—”

“I KNOW!” roared the Goblin King. All the goblins scattered away from his wrath and he settled back in his throne, propping his head on his hands. “I know,” he said, much quieter.

On the return trip the cart was heavy enough to dent the dirt packed roads—but then it usually was, and was the reason he refused to go when it was raining. He made his way to his aunt’s house were people were already waiting to see the stuff he’d brought—including Jarvis, the Sire’s butler. The bitter old man, tainted by attempting to raise three generations of Starks, smiled at Peter as he pulled the cart into the small, fenced off garden. “What have you for us today?” asked Jarvis.

Peter grinned as he pulled to a stop. “The usual, plus something new!” he said cheerfully. He pulled a small bottle from his cloak pocket. “My trading partners were telling me about this food they have. It’s harvested from maple trees, and I agreed to take it to test.” Both Aunt May and Jarvis held out their fingers and Peter poured a small, viscous drop onto each one. He waited with a grin as they sucked the drop from their hands.

“My word,” said Jarvis in surprise. “This is quite tasty!”

“Oh yes,” said Aunt May. “What is it called?”

“My trading partners call it syrup,” Peter said. “They weren’t sure if it would go over well,” well, _Peter_ hadn’t been sure, “so they only sent a sample.”

“I can see this becoming very popular among the nobles,” Jarvis said calmly. “Is our current arrangement still good for you?”

“Perfect,” said Peter warmly.

“Then I shall deliver payment after inventory.” Jarvis held up his hands and a series of knights came forward and began to lug the heavy cart to the castle. Jarvis watched them go for a moment. “Astounding. It takes six of them struggling to do what you do so effortlessly.”

“I have more practice,” Peter said easily.

Jarvis pinned him with a stern gaze. “They,” he said, “have been trained to fight monsters, defend the county, and represent our people with pride. There is no excuse for this, and I shall personally see to it that this discrepancy does not last long.” He sniffed and strode off towards the manor behind the knights.

“Is he gone?” asked a voice.

Aunt May turned a stern look towards their liege lord. “Perhaps,” she said darkly, “if you did not shirk your duties _he_ may be more pleasant.” She sniffed herself, turned and flounced off.

Stark gave Peter a pitiful look. “I don’t think she likes me,” he said mournfully.

Peter grinned. “She likes you,” he reassured the liege lord. She just gets worried sometimes.”

“Right.” Stark looked after Aunt May for a moment before he shook himself. “So, about this waterwheel idea of yours…”

The Goblin King turned the crystal over. It gave him something to stare at as his mind wandered down his memories. He remembered meeting the dying child known as Peter.

The child used to play in the forest without the same fear as the others. He’d climb trees, swim in the river, and gather food. One day, the Goblin King’s sentry’s reported that the boy had been attacked and when he’d gotten there the child lay dying, his body badly damaged.

The Goblin King was no stranger to death. He’d seen it, and dealt it to those who would attack his home and those within it. He’d dealt it back to those who had killed him, and he’d seen it in travelers who got lost and wandered until they died in the woods.

But something about this child tugged at the heart he thought had died with him. Something about seeing the child who had been so carefree in the forest lying there, broken and bloody, made that heart he thought had died break. So he did something he never should have done: he gave the child a dose of Earth. The same thing that had turned him into the Goblin King.

He had turned and hidden himself as the dose took hold, wringing the wounds from the child’s body, replacing the blood—birthing the first of the new Goblin King’s goblins. The boy had opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was the new goblin. The boy opened his mouth and the first thing he said was, “What’s your name?”

The Goblin King had watched in shock as the little goblin had said, “Name? No name. Your name?”

And the boy had smiled. “My name’s Peter,” he said. He’d sat up, reached out to the little goblin, and smiled as it flew into his arms. “Well, if you have no name, I’ll give you one. I’ll call you Gwen.”

“Gwen name? Nice name. Gwen, Peter. Pete. Pete-Pete.”

But unlike the Goblin King, Peter didn’t stop aging. He didn’t rage as he was trapped in his new body, didn’t scream in fright or reject his own creation (not that he knew he’d been responsible for the goblin’s birth), and didn’t try to hide from the forest.

Instead he spent every free moment he had in the forest, as though it was calling him. And, somehow, he’d made friends with the goblins that the Goblin King had created until, at last, he’d met the Goblin King himself. And the Goblin King hadn’t even known how much he missed contact with humans until the child appeared, poking his nose into every nook and cranny until, one day, he suggested a trade agreement.

The Goblin King, who still had not told the child his former human name, sighed as he put the crystal down. Peter was living, yes—but he was still a goblin king. He still grew, aged, _matured—_ but he still made goblins (not that he realized it). Finally the Goblin King realized—Peter was living _half_ human _half_ goblin king. And it was all his fault.

The Goblin King should tell Peter to stay away—but he’s not strong enough.

After the plans for the waterwheel were completed, Sire Stark took a small contingent of knights and left for the High King’s court in order to get it spread. A functioning waterwheel could make all the difference for some villages. Spreading it to every possible village could change the whole continent for the better. And Peter had helped make it happen.

Peter smiled and hummed lightly as he milked the cow. The goblins were thriving, the people would be thriving, and his frequent forays into the forest to trade had stimulated the economy of the once destitute county. Now they were just as financially strong as their neighbors.

“Peter!” called Aunt May.

Peter grabbed the bucket, gave the cow a fond head rub as he passed, and headed inside. Aunt May pulled a spoon from the stove and pressed it towards him. “How does this taste?” she asked.

Peter dutifully took the taste—and nearly melted at the tart sweetness of it. It also tasted almost familiar. “What is it?” he asked.

“I was about to make that boysenberry dish you like so much, but was out of honey. I substituted that stuff you got on your trade.” She grinned. “I think it will go over well.”

“It will go over terrific,” Peter assured her.

Aunt May gave him a sly look out of the corner of her eye as he spooned up another helping. “Maybe enough to impress that person who’s caught your eye?” she asked.

Peter choked on his mouthful and looked at her. As he got his breath back he realized: she’d said “that person,” not “that girl.” He pinned her with a look of his own. “What do you know?” he asked suspiciously.

Aunt May grinned at him, clearly unrepentant. “I—” She was interrupted by an authoritative pounding on the door. “What in Gaia’s name?” she muttered as she went to the front of the cottage. Peter took advantage of the distraction to steal more of the desert. “What are you doing?”

Peter quickly swallowed his mouthful and leaped to the front of the cottage towards his aunt. There were three soldiers blinking in the relative dimness of the cottage. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The leader stepped forward with a disparaging glance around. “Peter Parker?” he asked. When Peter nodded the man continued, “His Excellency would like a word with you.”

May ran through the forest, quickly stepping off the path. She knew more about her nephew’s activities than she pretended. Or rather, she had more of a brain than most of the village.

People wondered who Peter’s trading partners were. After all, everyone knew that the only people in the forest were goblins. May didn’t wonder. After all, _everyone_ knew that the only people in the forest were goblins. And Peter never spoke badly about the goblins, and never protested the goblins. When he said he’d watch for goblins he never added, “so they don’t catch me by surprise” like every other villager.

Peter was trading with the goblins.

It was fine. She wasn’t worried about him trading with them; after all they seemed to respect him for who he was. Plus, the entire county was prospering.

Which was what brought Bishop Osborn back. And while the Sire was out of county! Peter, if he didn’t already, was going to need help.

A little white and yellow goblin dropped from a tree and May easily caught it. It blinked huge blue eyes that seemed to take up half its face at her. “Who you?” the goblin asked.

May didn’t answer the question. Instead she asked, “Where’s your king? Please, I need to see the Goblin King!”

The goblin tilted its head and gripped her hands with a slightly sticky grip. “King?” it said. “King not here.” It launched itself out of her grip and dashed away, through the forest.

It was too much. May dropped to the forest floor sobbing. Her nephew, her baby was going to be hurt, and hurt badly—and there was nothing she could do!

“You wanted to see me?”

May looked up at the tall, imposing figure. The sight of rock moving alongside skin was almost too much, and her stomach roiled at the sight. But there were more important things than her comfort. “Please,” she begged. “You’ve got to help Peter!”

Gwen was a good goblin. Pete-Pete said so, and he was her King, so he must be right. And the sad human wanted her king, so she had to find him. Pete-Pete could make it all better, she was sure.

Careful! Careful! She had to make sure humans didn’t see her. Couldn’t see her. Pete-Pete said they were dangerous and to stay away.

But—the sad woman hadn’t been dangerous. She’d caught Gwen, like Pete-Pete did. But—the human was clearly human, and not a King like Pete-Pete was.

She was confused. Was Pete-Pete—wrong? _Could_ Pete-Pete be wrong? How would she know?

It didn’t matter. She had to find Pete-Pete for the sad human. She raced through the village.

Peter knew that being manhandled into a chair in a room full of torture devices, strapped into said chair, and forced to wait with nothing to do but view said devices was designed to prey on him mentally. He was supposed to look at these devices and quake in terror at the thought of them being applied to him. Instead he looked around noting just how many (almost all) of them were portable, which meant they’d been brought _with_ Bishop Osborn.

The door finally creaked open and Bishop Osborn, resplendent in his crimson robes, stepped in.

Peter had never liked Bishop Osborn. Bishop Jamison, the previous Bishop, may have been a loudmouthed and arrogant man, but at least he seemed human. Bishop Osborn could stand next to a marble statue and make the statue look more human.

“You don’t seem to be repenting,” Bishop Osborn said as he carefully placed his ever present Bible on the table to the left of the door.

“I have done nothing to repent for,” said Peter firmly.

“Have you not?” countered the Bishop. “Not even the heresy of your survival?” The man strode forward and gripped Peter’s chin in a claw-like hand. “I saw you broken, Boy,” he hissed. “I saw you dying. There’s no way you should have survived.” Just as suddenly as he’d grabbed it he let go. “So, tell me of these trading partners of yours,” he said.

The thought of what Bishop Osborn would do to the goblins made Peter’s blood run cold. “No,” he said firmly.

Bishop Osborn turned, holding a device that looked like two small wooden planks attached at the sides with screws. “This will hurt a bit,” he said with a grin.

Peter thought it was highly unfair that the grin merely looked happy instead of monstrous.

Tony leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He hated traveling—but it had to be done. These plans were absolutely revolutionary.

The door to the inn he was in slammed open and a panting knight looked around until the man spotted him. The knight ran to him and dropped to a weary knee. “Sire,” he gasped.

Tony frowned. “Up, sit. You look like you’re about to keel over. Barmaid!” he barked. “An ale for my knight.” The serving wench nodded and scurried off to obey. As a noble (no matter how lowly a noble a Sire was considered to be) he got a certain level of respect and service.

The knight, still gasping and still in armor, climbed onto the bench. “Sire, Jarvis sent me,” he said.

“Hold. Dry throats do not speak well,” said Tony firmly. The woman returned with a wooden mug and Tony flipped her a copper coin in payment.

The knight, thirsty from the dust of the road, tossed half the mug with one gulp before facing his liege. “Bishop Osborn has taken over the castle,” he reported.

Tony was torn. He had to get back and protect his people. He also had to get the waterwheel plans to the High King. He pulled the message tube from his personage and handed it to the knight. “Stay here overnight,” he ordered. “Set out in the morning. Give this to _no one_ save His Majesty Roger or His Consort Barnes. Understand?”

The knight attempted to bow in his seat. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

“Good.” Tony handed the man a small purse of change to get him to the capital and then stood. “Guards!” he ordered. “Bishop Osborn’s decided the High King’s verdict does not apply to him and has taken our home.” He looked at the silent room in front of him before he grinned. “Let’s go take it back,” he suggested.

Peter coughed and tried not to tense as his head felt like it was splitting. He couldn't feel his fingers or toes anymore. That was bad, wasn’t it?

But—the Goblin King and the goblins were still safe. Like everyone else, Bishop Osborn couldn't imagine anyone talking to them willingly, never mind trading. Of course, the trading was an excuse, and Peter knew that. The man simply couldn't allow Peter to have survived.

Peter still remembered that day, all those years ago. He’d become friends with the lonely orphan (well, not really and orphan, everyone knew that Harry was Bishop Osborn’s bastard son) who traveled with the Bishop’s entourage. And it was while playing with Harry that Peter learned a secret that Bishop Osborn would do _anything_ to make sure no one knew.

It didn’t matter to him if Peter gave up his trading partners or not. He just wanted to make sure that, since Peter _hadn’t_ told anyone (that he knew of) he didn’t survive. Peter just had to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to get out of this alive. It was fact.

He hoped the Goblin King didn’t take his death too hard. The Goblin King might pretend to hate humans, to be callous towards them, but Peter knew better. He knew how much of a person the Goblin King was.

Of course, it probably helped that he knew how much of a monster Bishop Osborn was.

A light touch, landing in his lap, jarred him out of his thoughts and he squinted an eye (the other was swollen shut) open to see—Gwen. Gwen, the friendly little goblin. “Gwen,” he hissed.

Gwen looked at him and bounced up and down, clearly worried. “Pete-Pete hurt!” she said.

“Gwen, you can’t get caught—”

The little goblin covered her mouth and her eyes went wide as she looked around. “Pete-Pete—got caught?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Peter coughed some more and felt something move in a sickening manner in his chest. “Run, Gwen.”

The little goblin looked between Peter and the door before tentatively touching Peter’s chin. “Gwen get help!” she said before vanishing.

She was gone before Peter could tell her that there was no one to help.

The Goblin King and his army of goblins descended towards the village. Those that saw them locked themselves in their homes, ages of rumors doing most of their work for them. He had no idea what those inside thought as the goblins crossed their roofs and pressed inward. He didn’t care.

The only thing he cared about was Peter.

Peter, the boy who’s first reaction to being confronted with a goblin wasn’t to scream or cry—but to ask it for its name. Peter, the boy who cheerfully ran through the forest without a care. Peter, who tended to wounded goblins, never asking for anything. Peter, who figured out how to get more wholesome food for the goblins.

Peter, who accepted him. Who was never afraid of him. Who _sought out his company_. He had to save the boy, protect him.

The Goblin King’s closest goblin raced up towards him. “Majesty,” it said respectfully, “the Sire of this county returns with a full contingent of knights. Perhaps we should withdraw and leave him to this.”

The Goblin King—hesitated. He didn’t want to leave Peter’s fate to the hands of a _human_ , especially not a powerful human like the one that had taken him. But—he didn’t want to risk his subjects either. He wasn’t sure what to do.

“Goblin King!” cried a voice as a pale form ran over the roofs towards him. “Goblin King!” The white and yellow little goblin launched itself towards him and he reached out to catch it. The little goblin, eyes wide and shaking like a leaf, clutched his thumb. “Goblin King, Pete-Pete needs help! Hurt bad, very bad!”

The Goblin King’s breath caught in his throat. If Peter was hurt that badly—

—there was only one thing that could save him.

He turned to his closest goblin. “Take some of ours to the Sire, see if you can’t help them get here faster.”

“And what will you do?” asked the goblin.

“The rest of us will go rescue Peter.” He looked at the little goblin. “Make sure he knows help is coming.”

“Yes, Goblin King!” said the little goblin before it launched itself away and scampered back the way it had come.

From the castle.

Peter grunted as he was picked up from the chair and thrown to the cold, cold floor. His feet were now in just as bad shape as his hands. He might be worried about his feet and hands, but at least they didn’t hurt.

The rest of him did.

“I’ll give you a minute to think on your decisions,” Bishop Osborn said as he left the room.

Peter vaguely hoped that this room had been a dungeon before this. He didn’t think Sire Stark was going to be able to get the blood stains out of the stone. How did Aunt May get the stains out? He couldn't remember.

“Pete-Pete!” He cracked open his good eye. Gwen was back. No, no—she was in danger! “Pete-Pete, Gwen get help!”

Peter tried to speak, he really did. His throat wouldn't work. _Run, run!_ She couldn't hear his thoughts.

He heard her yelp as she was yanked off the floor. With horror he looked up at his tormentor as the man callously held the struggling, helpless little goblin off the floor. “What a pitiful creature you seem attached to,” Bishop Osborn stated. He raised his arm and Peter tried to move, tried to get to her, but his hands and feet wouldn't _work_. Bishop Osborn slammed his hand down, throwing her to the floor. Then, as she weakly tried to get up, stepped forward and stomped the life out of her poor, mangled body.

The sound from Peter’s throat was nothing but incoherent rage and grief that didn’t end until one of the kicks to his chest broke a rib.

Tony’s knights shifted nervously in their saddles as the road in front of them rolled like the earth underneath was boiling. Some of them tried to draw back, but he held up a hand to stop them. Then he pat the neck of his calm horse. Dum-E simply flicked an ear back towards him then perked towards the road once again.

The road parted and a horde of small creatures, roughly a foot high, covered in warty skin holding clubs, axes, and sling shots boiled into view. As Tony regarded the goblins that had appeared before him the horse merely snorted, shook its head, and mouthed at his bit. One of the goblins, the only one that was unarmed, stepped forwards and Tony heard his knights draw their swords. Once again he held up a hand to stop them as he calmly regarded the goblins in front of him, taking his cue from his horse.

The lead goblin said, “Our King wants us to help you reach the castle faster. He is putting it under siege, and would like your permission to enter in order to save his friend.”

Tony may have been, in the words of his father, feckless and unwilling to commit. He may have been, in the words of Jarvis, a lazy, debouched, shirking excuse for nobility. However, no one would accuse him of being stupid. Add to that there was _one_ resident who made regular trading forays into the Goblin Forest, and there was only one person the Goblin King would call a friend. “Peter,” he said softly. The goblin nodded.

Peter was just as intelligent as Tony was and possessed a fundamental core that even Tony did not—the boy was honestly kind. When he’d been working with Tony to develop the waterwheel he hadn’t thought about the potential for profit. He hadn’t been excited by the innovation. He’d been thrilled at the idea that it _could save lives_. And that kind boy, that boy who used almost all of his profits to stimulate the failing economy of his village, was in danger.

“Please, speed our way friend, and I will see to it the guards know the Goblin King is allowed in the castle.”

The humans arrived at the castle at the same time as the Goblin King. The Sire nodded at him and he cautiously nodded back as the Sire addressed the castle. “Open the gates!” the Sire ordered.

“My lord, the Bishop said—”

“The Bishop has been banned from these lands by order of His Royal Majesty Roger, High King of the known world,” the Sire said. “Open these gates right now!”

“Yes, my lord!” The soldier at the front of the gate saluted and left his post.

“I hate having to pull rank on low levels,” muttered the Sire grimly. “They have no choice but to obey orders, and that man was _not_ supposed to enter my county again.” When the Goblin King looked at him he added, in a soft tone that carried no further than the two of them, “His boy was had evidence of demon feeding. I could prove nothing, he tried to get the county excommunicated, but I was able to make sure that he had orders from both the High King and the Pope that he was never to return to these lands.”

The Goblin King spoke. “He is not the kind of man to take kindly to orders or restrictions. It is likely that he blames both Peter for this and you.”

Before the Sire could respond or react the drawbridge lowered and the goblins surged forwards, followed by their King. As they continued the goblins swarmed the guards, holding them in place as the Sire and his knights came into the castle.

One of the goblins ran towards him. “King, we found him. It—it doesn’t look good.”

Tony followed the Goblin King through the maze of halls that briefly, despite that he had lived in the castle his entire life, looked unfamiliar. They raced to a room that Tony had shut down because they simply didn’t have the manpower to keep rooms that weren’t being used clean. Tony entered the room on the heels of the Goblin King—and stopped at the door to gag at the stench. The room reeked of blood, sweat, excrement, vomit, and burned flesh. The broken, bloody body on the floor was unrecognizable, hands and feet nothing but charred, bloody lumps of flesh.

_Dear God,_ thought Tony in horror as the Goblin King knelt beside the body. _What has that madman done?_

Tony heard a whimper and turned his gaze to the Bishop. The man was pinned to the wall by goblins holding knives to various parts of his body. It also, from the spreading damp stain on the front of his robes, appeared that he’d wet himself. Tony couldn't bring himself to care.

He heard a glorious—haunting sound. The sound of drawing breath. Of coughing. Of _healing_ . Tony’s head whipped around to see that Peter was sitting up, hands and feet recognizably _hands_ and _feet_ once more. How? How had that happened?

Peter was clutching a white, yellow, and red—something that he’d scooped up from the floor, tears falling down his heartbroken face. What had the Bishop done?

“Go,” Tony ordered. “Go to the forest; it’s safe there.” He was certain the Goblin King would allow no harm to come to Peter. The two of them nodded and the Goblin King picked up the still weakened boy and carried him out of the room.

Tony looked around the room at the torture instruments and was _furious_ . He turned to the Bishop. “Now, we wait for the proper authorities to deal with _you_ ,” he said with firm satisfaction.

The Goblin King held Peter while he cried over the remains of the little goblin in his arms. Once again he was stunned by the depth of kindness and attachment Peter had towards the goblins. Peter cared for them, and he was genuinely mourning this one.

The Goblin King thought back to when he had first become the Goblin King and had led his goblins on a blood fueled rampage against those who’d wronged him when he was alive. Had he ever mourned for his goblins? No, because every drop of blood the Goblin King spilled became another, more vicious goblin.

He didn’t have a choice now. He was going to have to tell Peter that he was now a Goblin King as well. He may not have been before, but this last dose of Earth had tipped him over.

Peter looked up at him. “Is there—anything we can do?” he asked.

“I’m sorry Peter,” the Goblin King said. He’d never been more sorry than he was at that moment. “There’s nothing that can bring back a fallen goblin.” He hugged the boy as he cried. “But we can make a grave,” he said. The new goblin king cried for just a little more when the Goblin King cleared his throat. “Wade,” he said suddenly. When Peter looked up he looked away. “When I was human—my name was Wade.”

Through his tears, Peter smiled.

“Aaand that’s the last of it,” Tony (seriously May, after all we’ve been through, it seems ridiculous for me to call me by my title) said as he pat the last of the trade goods onto the cart. He’d done something that May didn’t understand to the thing to make it easier for her to pull it.

The former Bishop had been excommunicated, branded, and thrown out of the church with nothing. After hearing what the man had done to her nephew, she couldn’t say she was sorry about his fate. Honestly, she wouldn't have had the patience to do what what Tony had done and wait for the proper authorities if she’d been there.

“Sure you don’t need any help?” Tony asked.

May smiled as she gripped the wooden post to pull the cart. “I think I’ll be fine,” she told him.

“You sure? I can come with you.”

May rolled her eyes fondly at the wheedling. “It’s not befitting a Baron to help an old woman with her things,” she told him. He winced at the reminder that he now, as a result of the High King getting the plans for the waterwheel, was a Baron with both the extra lands and the extra responsibilities that the title entailed. Still, he was a decent man, and she was proud of him.

She pulled the cart away from her home, down the road, and into the forest. As soon as the wheels left the path a figure dropped from the trees and gave her a grin. “Let me get that, Aunt May,” said the new Goblin King.

**Author's Note:**

> In my college Lit class the the class system of Ancient Britain went like this from bottom to top: serf, peasant, merchant, Sire, Baron, Viscount, Earl, Marquess, Duke, Prince, King, High King. Now, please bear in mind that this did not come from a history textbook, and may be subject to errors, but that's what I based the class system of this story on.


End file.
